High Impact (11 page)

Emery felt Geneva’s hand on her thigh.

“We’re all looking forward to getting to know you better,” Geneva said flirtatiously, “some more than others.” The rest of them laughed.

“Down, girl. You’ll get your turn,” Megan said, which prompted more laughter.

During the next ninety minutes, they continued to grill Emery as they lingered over dessert and coffee. They asked few personal questions. Emery suspected Bryson had already told them she was single, had no ties and no home base. They queried about where she’d been, what she’d done, and where she planned to go next. She volunteered nothing about her accident or recuperation, even when Megan asked whether something had prompted the dramatic change in her lifestyle. She merely said she’d decided to pursue her dreams.

Reliving those awful moments still bothered her, and she loathed the pity in the eyes of a few women she’d been intimate with. To Emery, her scars and metal pins and her struggle to walk again were private.

Despite the interrogation, she was having a wonderful time with her new friends, though she glanced toward the Den’s entrance now and then, hoping Pasha would appear. She couldn’t fathom why the woman distracted her, particularly since Geneva sat right here at her side, charming and effervescent and beautiful. Perhaps curiosity about why Pasha had behaved so oddly and seemed almost to recognize her.

A little before nine, Geneva whispered something in Bryson’s ear, none too subtly, and Bryson announced that she had an early flight so perhaps she should call it a night. Karla, Chaz, and Megan all readily agreed, snatching their coats and bidding Emery good evening, after telling her what fun they’d had getting to know her. Geneva stayed put.

“Whoever’s in town at six, we converge here every night for dinner,” Chaz told Emery. “Hope to see you again soon.”

“Count on it,” Emery replied.

“I’ll catch up with you,” Bryson told Karla and the others as they headed out, before turning to Emery. “Walk me to the door?”

“Sure.”

“Had an inspired idea about where to take you when we go out next.” Bryson had this I’ve-got-a-secret,
Cheshire-cat grin, and her dark brown eyes, framed beneath the curved bill of her ball cap, narrowed in mischief.

Emery was immediately hooked. “I trust your judgment implicitly after today, believe me. And you’ve sold me just with your expression. Where we heading?”

“Well, since you say you trust me, I’d like to make it a surprise.” Bryson’s grin got bigger.

“I guess I never told you that I hate surprises.” Bryson would have no idea what an understatement that was. “Usually, anyway. But if I know for sure it’ll be a
good
surprise, I can be very patient.” One could not go from shattered to walking again without endless patience and focused determination.

“Oh, it’s very good,” Bryson told her. “A rare opportunity for an outsider. A friend owes me a favor.”

What could it be? It involved someone else. One of the others from the group? Someone Bryson did business with? She’d read a couple of biographies of bush pilots on her iPhone during the last couple of weeks, just a taste of the literature she’d devoured in preparation for her long-awaited arrival here. If Bryson had been flying here for a quarter-century, she likely had met an enormous percentage of her territory’s population. Everyone flew. She’d probably transported them to homes, hospitals, and morgues. To births, weddings, celebrations, and funerals. Away for vacations, and away for good when the cold and the isolation became too much. She risked her life and was available in emergencies. So if Bryson needed to “collect on a favor,” Emery suspected she could call on hundreds, maybe thousands of people.

Bryson probably seldom asked a friend for a favor. Solidly self-reliant, bright, and resourceful, she’d do it herself if she could, or pay to have it done, unless it was horribly expensive, ordinarily. Or perhaps it wasn’t for sale. What could it be?

For Bryson to ask such a favor in order to give her a memorable experience told Emery volumes about how much Bryson had already become more her friend than her pilot. “Well, whatever it is, I know I’ll love it,” Emery said. “Can’t wait. And I can’t begin to thank you for going out of your way like this.”

“No biggie. Checked my schedule and I have a few hours free tomorrow, if that’s not too soon. Say, ten o’clock?”

“Awesome. Where’ll I meet you?”

“Here is good. We can get some to-go lunch again.”

“May not be able to sleep tonight, thinking about it.”

“Oh, I bet you’ll have other things on your mind tonight.” Bryson looked past her, smiling at Geneva back at the booth. “Have fun.”

“What would you like to do?” Geneva caressed Emery’s arm as soon as she returned and slipped into the booth. “Nightcap? Walk? Something…” She moistened her lips. “More private?”

The sun was still hours away from its brief dip below the horizon, and Emery wanted to tread slowly and carefully with Geneva. “It’s still early. How about a walk? Anything interesting nearby?”

“I know just the thing.” Geneva slipped out of the booth and Emery followed. “Better grab your coat. And bring your camera.” As they headed up the stairs, she added, “Meet you outside in a few.” Then they split up to head to their respective rooms.

Emery grabbed her coat and stuffed her daypack with her camera, gloves, a bottle of water, and a hat. Though she imagined they wouldn’t go far, she also tossed in her survival kit: matches, water-purification tablets, Swiss army knife and Leatherman tool, mosquito dope, Band-Aids and antibiotic ointment, disposable poncho, and signal mirror, all meticulously packed into a waterproof plastic case the size of a small brick. It didn’t weigh much and made her feel more prepared for any emergency, especially when travelling in remote, unpopulated areas.

Geneva had on a similar backpack when they met again, and she carried two khaki hats with mosquito netting bunched up around their wide brims. “Bugs may be bad where we’re going,” she warned Emery as she handed her one.

“Black flies ate Bryson and me alive today at one of the places we stopped. We didn’t linger.”

“Ready to go?”

“Lead the way.”

Geneva took her to the river, where more than a dozen boats were anchored, most just glorified rowboats with outboard engines. Geneva headed toward one of the newer ones and stepped inside.

“Not that I’m objecting, but I thought we were going for a walk.”

“We will. Trust me.” Geneva started the outboard and tilted her head toward the middle bench of the boat. “Get in.”

They set off downriver at an easy clip, and not long after they’d left the village, Emery spotted a bald eagle perched atop a tall dead spruce on the right bank. She fumbled for her camera and got several good pictures with her zoom as they motored by, the majestic bird seemingly undisturbed.

“I take it this is okay?” Geneva asked.

“More than. It’s wonderful.”

“I aim to please.”

After another few minutes, they stopped at a wide, deep spot, where the Koyukuk River forked and gave birth to a new tributary. The John River, according to Geneva.

Hiking inland a short way through a thicket of trees and dense undergrowth, they came upon the ruins of several structures. One was an old storefront, with the word Bettles carved in big letters above the doorway beneath a massive moose rack bleached white from the sun and elements.

“What is this?” Emery asked.

“Old Bettles. The original town.”

“What happened?”

“Well, the original settlement was founded during the gold rush. Gordon Bettles, a friend of Jack London, built a trading post here because it’s as far as the big paddleboats could get. Miners and supplies had to go on in horse-drawn barges to the claims, another hundred miles upriver.”

As Emery took more pictures, Geneva told her more about the area. “In the ’40s, the navy decided to build a runway here, but the best spot was upriver six miles. Wasn’t long before the whole town up and moved to be close to the airport, once commercial flights started.”

“I can almost see them. The people who lived here then.” She envisioned the elements reclaiming these once-vibrant buildings, reducing them to half-walls and collapsed rooftops overrun by dense vegetation. “Trappers, miners, and natives in their fur parkas. Had to be an awfully rough existence.”

“Not much easier these days for some,” Geneva said. “A lot of the Indians and Eskimos in the area still rely on subsistence—getting most of their food from the land. Moose, caribou, fish, berries.”

Emery kept snapping photos, lost in the rich history of the location. Fortunately, a light breeze kept the bugs at bay. When she finished, she found Geneva sitting on a fallen tree, watching her. She sat beside her. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

“I’m happy to get you alone.”

“Why me?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” Geneva gave her a look that said she was crazy for asking the question. “You’re sexy, and bright. Funny. Well-traveled. You’ve got to have women coming on to you all the time.”

“I’m sure you do, too.”

“Pickings are kind of slim up here.”

“Geneva, look…you’re an incredibly hot and sweet woman. And I’m flattered and honored that you’d think we’d be good together—”

“I sense a very large
but
coming next.” Geneva frowned.

“No…Well, let’s say I’m not turning down your offer. I’d love to spend some time with you and get better acquainted. I just don’t want to jump into something physical too soon. And first, we have to reach an understanding.”

“About?”

“You know from the dinner conversation that I’ll move on when my trips end,” Emery said gently. “This…this quest I’m on is the most important thing I’ve ever done.”

“I get that,” Geneva replied.

“I don’t make emotional attachments. It’s purely no-strings, mutual fun.”

“That’s how it is with most people I meet up here, Emery. Here and gone, back to their lives. Never see them again. You’re not telling me anything I don’t know.”

“You strike me as the kind of woman I might hurt easily.”

“You don’t think I can do brief affairs? Why?”

Emery didn’t want to confide that Bryson had shared some of her history. She wasn’t sure how Geneva would take that, and she didn’t want to risk sharing something Bryson might have intended as confidential. She put her hand on Geneva’s cheek. “I don’t know if you can or can’t. Just a sense I get, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m a tough girl. Bring it on.” Geneva looked at her with longing and resolve, and Emery melted. She always fell for the just-shut-up-and-kiss-me look women gave her now and then, so she reacted as she usually did. She brought her other hand up to cradle Geneva’s face and then, ever so sweetly, kissed her.

*

Pasha tried not to stare at the clock, and when that didn’t work, she shut off the office lights so she couldn’t see the huge one on the wall and stuck a Post-it note over the digital one on her computer. She’d get done when she got done, and she only wasted time when she wondered if Emery and the girls would still be at the Den when she finally got there.

At long last, she hit the Save button and exited the program. Holding her breath, she peeled away the Post-it. Nine-forty. Not horribly late, but well after dinner. Certainly worth a trip to see whether they had left. She shut down the PC, locked up, and trotted to the roadhouse.

With every step, she tried to tune in to her sixth sense. Would it tell her Emery was there? But it was still on a low boil. Nothing like when she and Emery had met.

She assessed the Den’s inhabitants with a quick glance. Only Grizz, the regulars, and two couples she didn’t recognize. No friends, no Emery, and Geneva conspicuously absent. Her heart sank. She nearly turned around to retreat to her apartment, but decided to drown her sorrows with a nightcap first.

As she headed toward the bar, Grizz raised his bushy eyebrows in question. She shook her head, shorthand for “the usual?” and “not tonight.” Once in a while, she changed from coffee with Kahlua if she was at the bar. When celebrating, she splurged on champagne. With a meal, she might order wine. And when she was down, she went for the hard stuff. Cognac.

“Rémy?” Grizz asked in his most sympathetic tone as he set a bowl of pretzels in front of her.

Rémy Martin had soothed some of her most troublesome days, but she was asking a lot of it tonight. She usually went for the VSOP, but tonight she’d splurge. “XO.”

Grizz let out a low whistle. “That bad, huh?”

“Bitch of a day. The phone drove me batty and I only now finished the paperwork.”

“’Nuff said. You eaten?” he asked with a paternal tone as he set her drink to her left.

Pasha picked up the snifter and swirled it to admire the thin reddish-gold wave that climbed the sides, considering his question. As her palm warmed the brandy, she drifted it under her nose to inhale its familiar floral-fruity aroma. She’d barely eaten anything all day, come to think of it. Too busy, and too preoccupied every free second with thoughts of Emery. She should be starving, but food didn’t sound appealing. “Not hungry.”